


As You Wish (The Princess Bride—Gallifrey AU)

by clockworkouroboros



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio), Princess Bride (1987), The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, The Princess Bride AU, i just need romana as princess buttercup okay, some of this is very ooc so please don’t kill me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-04 12:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20471225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkouroboros/pseuds/clockworkouroboros
Summary: (CURRENTLY ON HOLD, BEING REWRITTEN TO BETTER FIT THE PRINCESS BRIDE BOOK) It’s what it says on the tin—it’s a Princess Bride AU. Featuring Romana as Buttercup and Brax as Westley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBigCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBigCat/gifts).

> Please don’t kill me for all of the quantifying beauty thing. That’s not my way of writing or storytelling at all. I’m creating a sort of parody of the book, and in the book, that’s a recurring thing. (Just like the whole “such-and-such had been invented” thing. That’s a book thing, too.)

Once upon a time, in a land called Florin, there was a young girl who had no idea how interesting her life would one day become. She was the only child of a well-to-do farmer and his wife. Her father was much older than her mother, and didn’t talk very much, and when he did speak, you wished he hadn’t. Her mother was several years younger, didn’t love her husband at all, and talked too much, and when she was silent, you wished she’d speak. It wasn’t quite the wedded bliss that should be perhaps customary to our young heroine, and for many years I’m afraid she was just as bad as both of them. (Romance had been invented by this time, although you might not have guessed it from observing that house.) Our heroine, Romana by name, was a proud, self-centered girl for the first fifteen or so years of her life. She didn’t have many friends because of that. In fact, her only friend was the farm boy, and she would never have thought of him as a friend.

But we’ll talk more about him later.

A curious fact about the young girl known as Romana is that she was the eighteenth-prettiest girl in the world, even though she wasn’t all that pretty. She was only in the top twenty on  _ potential. _ You see, even though she was far too skinny, with bony elbows and knees sticking out every which way, and her face was far too full of freckles from all her time riding horses out of doors, and she couldn’t be bothered to bathe because she didn’t see the point, there was something about her, something in her eyes that made people take a second look.  _ Look at her, _ they seemed to be saying.  _ She has Potential. _

The prettiest woman in the world at this time was, of course, a woman by the name of Edith Barlow, but she quickly fell out of the coveted spot of first. You see, she realized she was the prettiest, and immediately began to worry about how she looked. Was that a pimple popping up on her chin? (Pimples had been invented by that time. Pimples are one of the oldest things on the planet, after porridge and taxes.) Was that a mole on her neck? Very soon, all that worrying got to her, and Edith Barlow dropped from first to fifty-eighth, and just kept dropping.

Romana jumped up to seventeenth place at that, but it still was largely on  _ potential, _ and even then people were skeptical that she could hold her place. If only she would brush her hair, some people said. If only she would wash her face, other people said. If she keeps riding horses, her legs will be bowed and then her figure will be all ruined as an adult, said others, and then she’ll never have a chance at even the top five.

But Romana carried on the same as she always had done, and ignored all of the concern about her place in the beauty list. Her own mother, who cared a great deal more about that sort of thing than her daughter, often nagged at Romana about putting more care into her appearance. Her own mother, of course, wanted to live vicariously through her, having never even reached the top one hundred herself.

“If you brushed your hair and stopped getting all muddy, you might look a great deal prettier,” her mother would say. “And stopped riding horses! And tried to make friends with people.”

“But I don’t want to make friends with people,” Romana would invariably reply. “I don’t like people, because they don’t like me. I want to ride my horse and read my books.”

So Romana continued, obstinate in her ways, and her mother would complain about it to the other mothers, who would all tut and shake their heads sadly, that such potential could go to waste on such a girl as Romana.

In the meantime, the current number one fell down to number six, and eventually, number twenty-five. She was a bright young girl named Margaret Hellin, and she was also the sixth smartest person in the world. Unfortunately, all of her reading by candlelight made her develop a squint, and soon the squint left her with a constant sneer on her face as she tried to see the world around her.

Romana was about fourteen at the time, and looking prettier by the day. She’d begun to brush her hair sporadically, and it very much helped. That alone made her jump from seventeenth to fifteenth, bumping two princesses behind her.

But aside from the hair, Romana was getting prettier in other ways. Her elbows and knees weren’t quite as bony as they had been, and she wasn’t quite as overall scrawny, either. Her skin remained clear while other girls her age struggled with acne, and she was beginning to become more self-aware. It didn’t stop her from being selfish, I’m afraid to say, but she was at least aware she was being selfish. You have to start somewhere.

Before I continue, I suppose I’ll have to say something about the farm boy I mentioned earlier. I’m sure you remember the one: I called him Romana’s only friend.

The farm boy was a very bright young man perhaps slightly older than Romana, and he went by the rather cumbersome name of Irving Braxiatel. He was handsome and strong, and did all of the chores that Romana’s father didn’t want to deal with.

He also did all of the chores Romana didn’t want to deal with. She would often command him to do things just to see if he would do them. Things like “Farm Boy, fetch me that stool,” when the stool was right next to her.

Without fail, the farm boy would do as she asked with a smile and the words, “As you wish.”

This happened for years, until finally,  _ finally _ Romana understood what he meant. She was fifteen-and-a-half by this point, and was holding steady as the fourteenth-prettiest girl in the world. But none of that mattered in light of what happened with Braxiatel.

You see, she finally understood. All those times, Braxiatel had been saying, “As you wish,” when what he really meant was, “I love you.”

And Romana realized that she loved Braxiatel in return. It was the happiest time of her life. It was in that time that Romana realized, truly realized what true love is, and she set about changing herself in a way that her mother could never have gotten her to do, for all her nagging and wheedling.

Romana began to brush her hair every day, until it gleamed, because she wanted it to look lovely for Braxiatel. She took care to wash herself carefully, every day, because she wanted to look her best for Braxiatel.

So, in the end it was because of Irving Braxiatel that Romana jumped from fourteenth-prettiest girl in the world to seventh-prettiest, and then to sixth. She hadn’t lived up to all her potential yet, though; her left elbow was still slightly too bony and one tooth was a little bit crooked. But Romana didn’t care, because she had Braxiatel, and he didn’t care if she wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world.

It was around this time that Lady Darkel popped around for a surprise visit to Romana’s father’s farm. It was more of a vineyard, really, since Romana’s father dealt mainly in wine, and the Lady Darkel was fond of a good Heartshaven wine. She often stopped on the way back to the palace from her estate in the country and bought some wine from Romana’s father.

For whatever reason, the Lady Darkel had never before seen Romana; although if she had, she might not have given her a second glance. Lady Darkel was not the sort of person to spend much time thinking about potential. She had, in her youth, been a great beauty, although she had never made it past twenty-one on the list.

But now, the Lady Darkel was seeing Romana at number six, Romana after she had fallen in love with Braxiatel. And the Lady Darkel was very impressed. She was so impressed, in fact, that she made mention of it to the king, who was a very old man indeed, saying that he might want to watch out for Romana as a potential bride for his son, who was getting to about that age when parents start to think about marrying their children off. (Arranged marriages had been invented by that time, and I’m afraid to say it took a very long time for them to become uninvented.)

“Was she really so especially pretty?” the old king asked Darkel, upon hearing the news.

“Would I have mentioned it to you if she had been average?” Darkel replied. “There is room for improvement, of course, but she has not yet reached full potential, and that potential is...remarkable.”

And so Romana’s life continued in bliss. Her parents took a surprisingly long time to notice that their only child was romantically involved with the farmhand, and by the time they did notice, they wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop her. Romana was always very obstinate, even if the past few years had seen a remarkable change in her temperament.

In reality, Romana’s parents didn’t mind their daughter carrying on with the farm boy because they thought it wouldn’t last. It wasn’t until Romana confessed to them that they had been in love since she was fifteen that they began to look at the relationship with some alarm. They had heard rumors that their daughter could end up marrying very well, perhaps as good as a count or marquis. 

That was why Romana’s father went one day to Irving Braxiatel’s quarters. It was a small room with a bed, a pile of secondhand books, and several pieces of art that looked far too valuable to be in a farm boy’s room, but since Romana’s father didn’t know all that much about art, he didn’t mention it.

“You can’t see my daughter anymore,” he said bluntly.

“Shall I put out my eyes, or do you want to do it yourself?” Braxiatel asked. He sounded perfectly serious, and he was. More or less.

Romana’s father was a little taken aback. “I didn’t mean you couldn’t look at her,” he said. “Just that she’s good enough to marry far above her station, and I won’t have her marrying some farm boy.”

“Then putting out my eyes would be too generous, “ Braxiatel replied. “For I could still be guided by Romana and still touch her. If you will not let me court your daughter, then I may as well end my life.”

“There’s no need for any suicide around here,” Romana’s father said uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “You just can’t court or marry Romana. That’s all.” He left awkwardly, and hurried back up to the house to tell his wife what a good job he’d done in settling the matter.

That night at supper, he broke the news to Romana. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t his wisest idea to reassure her that she didn’t have to “deal with that farm boy anymore,” and suggest that she “really could do much better, and wouldn’t that be nice for her?”

To his great surprise, Romana pushed away from the table and ran outside, away to Braxiatel’s quarters. When she got there, she opened the door without knocking and breathlessly cried out, “My father says we can no longer be in love!”

Immediately, Braxiatel took her hands in his. “That’s nonsense, of course,” he reassured her. “Your father cannot control whom you love.”

Romana rolled her eyes. “But he can control who I marry, and I’m supposed to marry the person I love,” she said.

“That’s also nonsense,” Braxiatel replied. “Just look at your parents.”

He had a fair point, Romana had to admit. “But I’d much rather marry someone I love,” she said slowly, then cried out, “Oh, emotions are so confusing!”

“You can still marry the person you love,” Braxiatel said. “All you have to do is run away with them.”

“Oh, but Brax,” Romana said desperately. “You have no money, and I can’t take money from my parents! Where would we go?”

“America,” said Braxiatel without a second thought. (America had been invented by this time, but only just.) “I can get a job on a ship and make enough money for us to get a house in America. All you have to do is wait for me for two years.” He gazed into her eyes, rubbing her hands with his thumbs. “I’ve been planning this for some time,” he said. “I knew it was only a matter of time before your parents forbade us from getting married.”

Romana met his gaze. “All I have to do is wait for two years?” she asked.

He nodded. “Just don’t get married while I’m away. I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

The pair embraced then, and even though it was in the doorway to his quarters, and there were chickens around them pecking each other, the sunset was enough to make that embrace the fifth-most beautiful embrace in history.

The next morning, Braxiatel was gone before Romana had even opened her eyes. But Romana wasn’t worried. She trusted him. All she had to do was wait.


	2. Chapter 2

It was about a year after Braxiatel left that Romana solidified her place as the most beautiful woman in the world. Her knobby left elbow had fleshed out, and her crooked tooth had straightened on its own. She was, for all intents and purposes, perfection itself.

She had begun getting marriage proposals from all over: boys from the village who as children had taken great joy in tormenting her; wealthy merchants who wanted a young, beautiful wife; even nobility had begun taking an interest in her. It was widely known to all of Florin (or perhaps just that corner of the land) that Romana was the most beautiful woman in the world. It infuriated Romana’s parents to no end that she refused all of them, remarking calmly that she was already promised to another. It bothered them even more that she refused to say the name of the man she was supposedly betrothed to, only telling them that they should already know.

And the old king had not forgotten Lady Darkel’s remarks about Romana. In fact, when Romana was seventeen, he summoned Lady Darkel to him and commanded that she go back to the farm and see if Romana had indeed lived up to her potential, for if she had, then she would make a most suitable wife for his only son, the prince.

The Lady Darkel only needed a little persuasion to do this. She hated being called on to run errands for the king—surely that’s what servants were for!—but she really was fond of the wine Romana’s father produced, and that summer had been an excellent year for grapes, and perhaps she would be able to get a bargain price on the wine those grapes would someday become.

Once she had finished haggling with Romana’s father over a price (and paying far more than she had hoped; whatever his other faults were, Romana’s father was a very good businessman), she brought up the subject of his daughter.

“I understand,” she said, “that you have a daughter around marrying age?”

“Aye, that I do,” the father replied, heaving a heavy sigh. “Not that she seems intent on marrying anyone right now.”

“Ah, you know how the younger generations are,” Lady Darkel commiserated. “So disrespectful and willful, like they think they have minds of their own!”

“Don’t they?” Romana’s father asked uncertainly. He was much better at negotiating a business deal than complaining at great length about the deficiencies of the younger generations. Such an act was too philosophical for him.

“Of course they don’t!” Darkel replied, as if the very idea was scandalous. She paused, let a smile grow on her face in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. It was in fact a very unnerving thing to watch. “I was wondering if you could bring your daughter out here? If she is indeed as beautiful as the rumors say, she could become princess, and one day, queen.”

This was enough for Romana’s father, and within twenty minutes, he and his wife had found Romana and convinced her to come out and say hello to their very distinguished guest.

Romana had been outside barefoot, and her dress and feet were very dirty indeed, since the previous days had been very rainy. But even the dirt could not hide the fact that she was beautiful; far prettier than even Darkel had been in her prime.

Of course, Darkel could find no fault with Romana, since there really was no fault with her, and she reported back to the king that, in terms of beauty, Romana would make a ‘perfectly adequate’ wife for the prince. This was glowing praise coming from the Lady Darkel, who was considered the land’s finest connoisseur of all things. In etiquette, though, she warned the old king, the young Romana may be found lacking.

All that was left was to see if the prince liked her well enough. He was a calculating young man whose passions lay in hunting and fighting, not the sort who was particularly inclined to get married. It did not matter if he loved her, though, only if he found her beautiful enough for a princess.

There had, by the way, already been several unsuccessful attempts to betrothe the prince to a beautiful princess from a distant land. Unfortunately, it seemed that all the good princesses had already been taken. 

There had been one, from that lovely country of Switzerland, who was beautiful enough, except she ate more cheese than every other person in the castle combined. Florin itself was not a dairy-loving kingdom, and her cheese-eating habits could have affected the deficit in the long run, so she had to go.

Then there had been the Italian princess. The king had been told that the Italian princess was the most intelligent woman in the world, as well as the twenty-third most beautiful. If you were paying attention in the first chapter, you will remember how rare it was that Margaret Hellin was the most beautiful woman in the world and also sixth-most intelligent person. Thus, the most intelligent  _ woman _ in the world, as well as twenty-third most beautiful would be a shockingly good catch.

Unfortunately, the Italian court hadn’t been all that truthful; when the princess showed up, she was clearly not the twenty-third most beautiful; and even worse, she had only slightly above-average intelligence. It took shockingly good negotiating skills on the parts of the Italians to avoid a full-fledged war with Florin.

And then there had been the German princess, who had beautiful long, blonde hair and a propensity for shocking hats. Things had been going splendidly with the princess, until one day, when she and the prince had been taking a walk in one of the many gardens. A particularly strong gust of wind knocked the princess’s hat off her head, as well as her hair. As it turned out, this princess was completely and totally bald. It was a nasty shock for the prince, who had been planning on finalizing the engagement the next day.

After the German princess, the prince refused to entertain any other princesses at the court. They were all dishonest or repugnant as far as he was concerned, and he didn’t want to sully Florin’s good name by hosting them.

This wasn’t good, not for him getting married and producing an heir, nor for the diplomatic relations of Florin with the other countries. And so the king, after much thought and worry, decided that his son should marry one of the locals. Some local nobility, or perhaps even just a very pretty peasant, he wasn’t picky.

The prince grudgingly agreed, although as I said before, he wasn’t all that inclined to getting married in the first place. He would much rather hunt in his Royal Zoo (which I shall talk about later) than spend any time with any other human beings.

After Darkel’s favorable report on Romana’s beauty, the old king devoted all his time and energy into convincing his son to go visit Romana’s family.

“You don’t have to like her family, you won’t even have to speak to her family once you’re married,” the king assured his son. “All you have to do is see if the girl is pretty enough to marry a prince.”

The prince finally went on horseback, by himself, since that was his preferred way to travel. Theoretically, it was more dangerous, but the prince was a skilled enough fighter that he could defend himself if necessary.

When he arrived at the farm, he was just in time to see Romana coming back from her daily ride. Romana still loved horses after all this time, and she found solace in her daily ride while she waited for Braxiatel to come back.

“Are you Romana?” the prince called out loudly, watching her dismount. He trotted his horse over to her.

She watched him, the setting sun making her hair stand out in a blaze of gold. “I am,” she replied. “But I don’t see why you should care.” She didn’t realize he was the prince, but even if she had, she probably wouldn’t have answered with any more politeness. Darkel was quite correct in stating that Romana needed to work on her etiquette. (Etiquette had, of course, been invented by this time. It was invented shortly after royalty.)

“Hello,” said the prince, with a grin. He didn’t  _ like _ etiquette, because no one actually likes etiquette, but he had at least been trained in it from a young age, so he was used to it. “I’m going to marry you.”

This was perhaps not the most correct etiquette. He probably should have introduced himself first, and possibly explained the situation. He definitely should have alerted Romana to the fact that he was the prince. But since he was the prince, he got to make up his own rules as he felt like it, and no one could really do anything about it.

“You will not,” said Romana. She really was very obstinate.

“But I’m the prince,” said the prince. This was perfectly solid reasoning. He  _ was _ the prince, after all, and that meant he got his way nearly all the time.

“Are you?” Romana asked.

“Yes.”

“I still won’t marry you.”

The prince glowered a little bit at that and said, “But I can make you marry me. I’m the prince.”

“I’ll refuse.”

“Then I can have you executed or locked up in a dungeon for the rest of your life.”

Romana considered this. “Would it change matters if I told you that I’m engaged?”

“I don’t know,” the prince admitted. “Are you actually engaged, or are you just saying that because you don’t want to marry me?”

“I  _ am _ actually engaged,” Romana cried indignantly. “And the man I am engaged to is my true love!”

“Then why aren’t you planning your wedding?” the prince asked. This was a perfectly reasonable question, he thought.

“My true love is out at sea, making enough money so that we can get married without making my parents angry.” (One thing you can say about Romana is that she was perfectly honest and didn’t try to hide anything from anyone.)

“Oh. When does he get back?”

“Next year.” At this, Romana looked wistfully into the distance, and she looked so perfectly beautiful that even the prince, who didn’t have the slightest interest in getting married or falling in love, found her radiant and lovely.

The prince thought for a little bit, because he really didn’t know who else he was supposed to marry, and Romana really was very beautiful, and he finally said, “If something happens to your true love—what’s his name?”

“Irving Braxiatel.” It was a ridiculous name, but Romana said it with such love that it didn’t even occur to the prince to make fun of it.

“Alright, what will you do if something happens to Irving Braxiatel? He’s at sea, and there are storms—and there’s the Dread Pirate Roberts, and he never takes prisoners.”

“Then,” said Romana soberly, “I will never love again.”

“But you could still get married,” the prince suggested. “I’d be willing to marry you.”

“You could live with marrying a woman you know doesn’t love you?”

The prince shrugged. “I’m a prince,” he said again. “It kind of goes with the territory. Royalty never get to marry for love.”

Romana thought about this. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “that if Braxiatel does not come back—if he dies at sea—then I shall marry you. But I won’t ever be able to love you, I’m afraid.”

And thus the prince was able to ride back to the castle and tell his father, the old king, that he had managed to procure an engagement with Romana. This was obviously not strictly true, but the prince was trusting that Braxiatel would die at sea. You see, the Dread Pirate Roberts really was very deadly. At least half of Florin’s merchant ships were captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts over the course of a year. And the Dread Pirate Roberts never took prisoners.

The year passed, and Romana was summoned to the court, where she was made to sit through impossibly boring etiquette lessons, and where she suddenly had servants who did her hair for her, which made life a lot easier. But she still insisted that Braxiatel would come back, and then she would have to leave because they would get married.

The prince was getting slightly worried about it, too. He thought for sure that Braxiatel’s ship would have been captured by this time. He didn’t care about Romana’s distress if Braxiatel died, he just wanted to get the marriage thing over and done with. And since Romana wasn’t even letting him announce their engagement publicly, he would have a very long wait indeed.

At long last, Romana went home to her father’s farm to wait for Braxiatel. The two years had passed, and she was anxious to see him. After all, he was her true love.

But the days continued on past her and stretched into weeks, and he still was not back. Until, finally, news arrived from the port: the ship Braxiatel had been on was captured shortly before it would have reached the port—captured by the most notorious pirate in Florin.

And the Dread Pirate Roberts never took prisoners.


	3. Chapter 3

Now, back before any of this other business with Romana and Prince Trave (Trave being the prince’s name), there is another story that is necessary to be told. A few stories, in fact.

There was a woman by the name of Leela who lived in the mountains on the border of Spain. She was not herself Spanish, but had moved there some time earlier, when she was still young. She was originally from America, one of the natives of that land. She stowed away on a Spanish ship out of sheer curiosity, and, upon being found out, was almost thrown overboard.

Suffice to say, the sailors were no match for Leela, and they soon came to an agreement: Leela could stay on the ship until they docked in Spain, and if she didn’t leave the moment they arrived, she would be imprisoned.

They didn’t actually mean to keep their end of the bargain. Leela was a woman of honor, who would never break a promise and never make a promise that she couldn’t keep. These sailors were a little less so. Had they an Irving Braxiatel on their ship, they might not have been so crude, but Braxiatel was on a Florinese ship, not a Spanish one.

The men secretly planned to knock Leela out and deliver her to the king of Spain as a sort of pet, in hope of some reward. This was, of course, a terrible thing to do, but the sailors were all very crude people who didn’t care.

There was, however, one exception. The first mate, Andred by name, could not condone the sailors doing something so horrendous to Leela, or to anyone. He took it upon himself to warn her beforehand.

Thus, when they docked, Leela managed to fight off almost all of the sailors. Andred had been meaning to help, but she was much better of a fighter than he, and soon all but one of the sailors had been rendered unconscious.

Leela did not see that particular sailor sneaking up behind her, but Andred did, and he drew a cutlass and attacked, saving Leela from a lifetime of torment and servitude in the king’s court. (Although, obviously, most of the credit should go to Leela. Andred helped, that’s all.)

Unfortunately for Andred, the sailor he attacked was the captain of the ship. He was suddenly out of a job, with an angry, injured sea captain after him. Leela offered to take Andred with her, for really, she had become quite fond of him. Andred was smart enough to take her up on her offer, and they ran off together, with the captain vowing to hunt them down.

Two days later, the captain’s wound became infected, and shortly thereafter he died. It happens to the best of us.

Andred and Leela were not aware of the captain’s death, and they continued on, travelling through the country, trying to find a place they could stay that was secluded and hard to find. On the way, Andred reconnected with old friends, and made a valuable business deal. You see, Andred had trained in the art of making swords. He was amazing at it, but when his original workshop had burned down, he became a sailor in an attempt to make enough money to start anew. He’d risen through the ranks to become first mate, and he had been planning on leaving the ship soon, anyway.

One of his old friends in the business agreed to work with him, selling the swords that Andred made. In the meantime, Andred could pop off to wherever he liked and make swords in peace.

But first, he and Leela got married. They were both young and foolish, and the shared experience of running away from a mad sea captain intent on revenge had brought them closer together. They had fallen madly in love, and, within two weeks of meeting each other, had decided they wanted to marry.

They soon settled down in the mountains, where they were twenty miles from the nearest village, and fifty miles from the nearest town of any decent size. Andred began making swords again, and Leela soon discovered that the art of swordsmanship fascinated her. Andred began teaching her basic fencing (fencing had been invented by this time), and soon she surpassed him in skill.

It was an idyllic life. They didn’t make much money, because Andred was a terrible businessman and Leela didn’t understand Spanish money, but they had each other, and that was all that was needed. Andred’s business acquaintance would come visit every so often, giving them money from the sale of swords, and talking about potential commissions.

One day, he came and visited, very visibly worried. He stood in the doorway of Andred and Leela’s small home, twisting his hat in his hands.

“What’s the matter?” Andred asked him.

“Well,” said the business associate, “I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid. I know you said that you didn’t want anyone to know where you lived—”

“—I told you why, too,” Andred interrupted.

Leela walked up to the business associate slowly, and he backed away, looking even more terrified. “If you have brought harm upon me or my husband, I swear I shall hunt you down and—”

“Leela,” said Andred. “We talked about this.”

She rolled her eyes, but retreated. The business associate remained where he was, visibly trembling, his hat a wrinkled mess in his hands.

“I had a customer who was very—impressed—with your work, Andred,” said the business associate. “She expressed interest in meeting you and personally requesting a commission.”

“So you just told her where I live?”

“Not exactly,” said the business associate. “You see, she was very—persuasive. Erm.” He coughed, his face bright red.

Andred groaned. “Do I want to know how she convinced you?” he asked.

“She threatened me at swordpoint!” the business associate exclaimed defensively. “You can’t blame me for doing as she asked!”

“You’re a coward,” Andred said with a sigh. “So. When is this lady coming? At least let me prepare for her arrival.”

“Well, actually,” the business associate stammered, eyeing Leela nervously. “She’s just outside.”

There was a moment of silence. Finally, Andred heaved a sigh. “Leela, keep an eye on him.” He walked out of the house.

The business associate looked terrified.

The woman didn’t tell Andred her name. All he could tell from speaking to her was that she was wealthy, beautiful, probably nobility, and not Spanish. She was very well-bred, and appeared to be a connoisseur of all the finer things in life, from wine to swords.

She told Andred that she had a very special request to make of him, a special commission for him. She had been searching throughout Europe, she said, for the finest swordsmith in the world.

Andred wasn’t certain that he was the finest swordsmith in the world, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. She seemed the sort of person who wouldn’t hesitate to blackmail, threaten, or outright maim the people with whom she disagreed.

So he agreed to make her a sword. The finest sword in the world. He didn’t really want to, but again, she seemed a dangerous woman to cross, and for all of Andred’s bad business practices, he was still smart. Remember, he successfully evaded an enraged sea captain. We’ll ignore the bit about the captain dying of gangrene.

The reason the woman couldn’t just buy one of his swords, she explained to him, was because she had an unusual...deformity. She referred to it as such, with all the bitterness of a beautiful woman who has been denied a place in the top ten most beautiful women in the world due to an unfortunate birthmark.

You see, she had a sixth finger on her right hand. And she was, in fact, right-handed. All regular swords just didn’t do. They didn’t work right for her. Andred was to take measurements and make accommodations for her extra finger in this sword, and thus enable her to reach her true potential as the finest swordsman in Europe. She would, she reassured him, pay a remarkable sum of money for such a sword.

Andred began to work on the sword, telling the woman that she should come back in six months time, and that he would have it finished by then. He also expected the money at that time, he told her, and she waved a hand dismissively, her custom-made gloves betraying the fact that she had a sixth finger.

Six months later, she arrived alone on horseback, and Andred was ready for her with the finished sword. He had put his all into this sword, and it showed. It was the most beautiful sword he had ever made, crafted perfectly for the six-fingered woman to use. It was perhaps the finest sword ever made.

One glance at the sword was enough to show the six-fingered woman that fact. But she was a shrewd woman, and already regretting the price she had agreed to pay Andred six months earlier. She examined the sword slowly, carefully, trying to find any flaw at all, any whatsoever.

But she couldn’t because it truly was the perfect sword. She picked it up, tested its weight in her hand. “This sword,” she said. “It’s very good, but I was told that you were the best swordsmith in the world. And it’s really only slightly above average, isn’t it?” She bared her teeth in a fearsome approximation of a smile and tossed the hilt from hand to hand carelessly. “I’m a firm believer in giving people a fair deal,” she continued. “I pay them for what their item is worth, and not a penny more.” She paused, looking from the sword to Andred. “And this sword is really only half the value that I originally said, isn’t it?”

Andred knew that wasn’t true. He may have been a bad businessman, but he knew that this sword was worth more than even her original offer. And he wouldn’t go a penny below.

“I am also a firm believer in giving people a fair deal,” Andred told her. “I charge them for what the sword is worth, and not a penny less. And this sword is easily worth the  _ promised _ price.”

Leela walked into the workshop in time to see the six-fingered woman kill Andred, stabbing him with that perfect sword.

If it had been any woman other than Leela who had walked in on such a scene, the story might have ended there. But Leela was a warrior, and she grabbed another sword. “You killed my husband,” she said, her voice not betraying her grief. “For that, I will kill you.”

The duel began, and, although Leela was good, she was no match for the six-fingered woman. This woman was not only one of the finest swordsmen in the world, she now had the perfect weapon. For all of Leela’s skill and hard work, the woman had years more experience, and many fine teachers. Before long, the woman had Leela disarmed, the tip of the sword against Leela’s breast.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right here,” said the woman.

“Who will bury my husband?” Leela asked. “Leaving him on the ground to rot will make others suspicious.”

The six-fingered woman considered this. She lowered her sword slowly, then, with two quick flicks of her wrist, she slashed Leela’s face, along each cheekbone. Leela fell back with a cry, hands on her face. The six-fingered woman dropped the sword on the floor and strode out of the workshop, mounted her horse, and rode off.

Leela never even learned her name.

Leela buried Andred alone, and left their little home one the same day. She had nothing but the clothes on her back, a small satchel of food, and a sword strapped to her waist. She had nothing in this strange land. No people, no friends, no family. For a brief time, she stayed with Andred’s business associate, but she soon left.

She began following the great swordmasters of the world. She found a teacher, and studied under him until she could best him in duels. She began entering dueling competitions, and, when she was in a particularly foul mood, she would go out and get into fights with anyone.

After awhile, she found another, better teacher, and she learned more. Leela was naturally gifted at swordsmanship, and all of her practice only enhanced that natural ability. Soon she was regularly beating her teacher; and she was winning in competitions.

She continued in this cycle, finding better and better teachers, and becoming herself better and better. After years of practice, Leela had gone to every teacher, won every competition. And her thoughts turned to revenge. She  _ would _ hunt down the six-fingered woman, and she  _ would _ challenge her to a rematch.

And this time, she would win.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry to the three (3) people reading this

Now, around the same time Leela was stowing away onboard the Spanish ship en route to Europe, there was a young man named Narvin who was making a name for himself in the criminal underworld. As a small child, his father had entered him in wrestling tournaments, in which he had done quite well, but it wasn’t for any size or strength advantage. No, Narvin was quite intelligent and a very good strategist, but he didn’t like people very much, and so he didn’t often speak. This, unfortunately, had the unintended side effect of people believing him a fool.

Narvin wasn’t a fool, and he knew this, but he also had doubts about it. So many people had openly discussed his idiocy in front of him that it had gotten under his skin, so to speak. He ran away from home at the age of fourteen, once he had reached the age that size began to really matter in wrestling. He was quitting the sport once and for all.

He hated wrestling, after all. He did well in it because he really didn’t want to get beaten up like that, so he had better win. But Narvin really didn’t have a way of getting any money, and his small fame managed to get him hired on the criminal side of things. Small things at first; people hired him as the muscle, despite his appearance. But eventually, Narvin moved on. He wouldn’t just be the muscle. Instead, he chose to specialize in...well, we’ll call it security. That’s what Narvin called it, after all.

Sure, Narvin had the technical and physical know-how to be the brawn of the operation, leave the thinking and planning, strategizing, poisoning, worrying, and general paranoia to the group leader, but he didn’t really care for that. Paranoia was in his nature, you see. He was a coward and he didn’t trust anyone else to cover his tracks or keep him safe.

He began hiring himself out as a private security contractor. That’s what it said on his taxes, anyway. (His taxes were, by the way, impeccable. You don’t become some brilliant criminal and then get captured because you didn’t pay your taxes! What sort of criminal is that?)

It was a little bit terrifying how good Narvin was at this new sort of job. He was a good wrestler, but this planning, this detail work in covering tracks and making sure no one could follow them,  _ this _ was where he truly excelled.

Several years of this sort of job passed, and. soon, Narvin was the only “security contractor” of any sort in the business. There had been others, once upon a time, of course, but they all died in mysterious circumstances. Narvin, of course, emerged remarkably spotless from the whole thing.

Not that he was a bad person, oh no. He cared very strongly for the people he trusted—he would have done anything for them. And that is how he got roped into the shadowy plot of the Sicilian.

But I’ll get to that in a moment.

Some time after getting himself established as a security contractor, Narvin ended up working on a job with this truly remarkable swordswoman; a foreigner who seemed to be struggling with grief. It annoyed him to no end, and he decided right away that he wanted nothing more to do with her. If she couldn’t be strictly professional while working, keeping her grief over the death of her husband out of it, and her plans for revenge, then he didn’t want anything to do with her.

As it turned out, he soon had another job with her. And another. And another. And each time, they griped and snarked and complained at and about each other. They really didn’t like each other, you see. Narvin, as I explained before, thought her unprofessional. The swordswoman found Narvin incredibly unpleasant. Because, you must understand, he was.

But they kept working together because, as they soon discovered, they were both the best in the business. Narvin, with his “private security” business, covering tracks and being the hired brawn, and this swordswoman. You may have already guessed this, but her name was Leela.

They started becoming rather close after some close calls on a job. Narvin saved Leela’s back, and she saved his. After that, there was a grudging sort of respect there. Leela may have been terrifying and unprofessional, but she was damn good with a sword. And Narvin may have been unpleasant and untrustworthy, but she had been able to trust him while on the job.

It wasn’t until they got caught in a civil war (that they had helped bring about) that they truly became  _ friends, _ though. And even then, they both felt for quite some time that they were only friends because circumstance had thrown them together. They managed to escape from the civil war, though, and wandered Europe together for some time, working jobs and keeping each other safe. Leela accidentally found herself in some sort of position of power at one point, and Narvin was nearly killed at another. When they at last emerged out of it, they decided to work together from that point on. They had become very close, and it was at that point that they both realized they trusted each other more than they trusted anyone else. They were unstoppable; the master swordswoman and the spy. Which is why the Sicilian contacted them.

The Sicilian was a short man, balding, who sweated and puffed and panted whenever forced to do anything requiring physical exertion. He considered himself the brains of every operation and Narvin, who was brilliant but obeyed every order anyone ever gave him, and Leela, who was known for her impeccable swordsmanship and white-hot temper, were the perfect lackeys for such a brain. He fully believed that he could take down governments in a night if given a proper incentive. Incentives could come in many forms, but they usually involved large amounts of money and secret Swiss bank accounts. (Swiss bank accounts had been invented by this time, and secret Swiss bank accounts were invented shortly beforehand.) Whether the Sicilian was truly as brilliant as he thought has yet to be proven, but we’ll get to that in due time.

The Sicilian hired Narvin and Leela, although he was less of a boss and more of a coworker. They split the shares evenly—Leela would have slit his throat had he been anything other than fair, and Narvin probably knew half a dozen poisons that would make it look like he’d died of natural causes. The only way in which he was superior to them was his brain.

They had been getting along just fine (or, about as fine as they could, given the vastly different temperaments of the team) when the Sicilian got a message from a person with a job for them. A very big job. It had everything the Sicilian liked: deceit, treachery, damsels in distress. He loved being a villain. And to make matters even better, this job was the highest-paying gig he’d ever seen in his life. Of course he took it. What else would he have done?


End file.
